OMG-WTF

I did share the news about the possibility of motor neurone-with my closest friends, whose reactions were as above: Oh My God, What the Fuck!!?? This is no time to be particularly PC-not that I've ever been PC anyway, as regular readers know by now.

I had a weepy and sleepless weekend last week-but how could I have anything other than that? And who in their right mind-regardless of how overworked and grumpy they are at the time- would ever just say to a patient "oh, by the way, they think you have motor neurone, but they didn't want to tell you". Duh?? It's like saying to someone "You've got cancer. But never mind, have a cup of tea, and would you like a biscuit with that?".

Everyone I know consulted the Great God Google-including me. I'm forever looking up things on Google-it has to be one of the greatest inventions of all time, up there with Microsoft, computers, antibiotics, Starbucks and Kettle Chips. Mustn't forget Starbucks and Kettle Chips, they kept me going all week. Hang the five a day. Enjoy life.

This week was a bit tricky. I met up with a friend who sold her flat, quit her job, and has been looking for work since just after New Year's. I told her not to worry, that she would find something really great, and she felt better. Last night she phoned me and told me that she starts her new job on Tuesday. Well, I had to be supportive, and I could hear relief in her voice.

That was the start of an okay week. I decided that I don't have motor neurone, and that there is nothing I can do about it until I retake the tests, and that will happen-er-sometime. The NHS is so overstretched that who knows when this will all take place? I have to stop worrying about everything-no wonder I get depressed! I mentally swore at the doctor who gave me this news without thinking about it first. You know, there is always one, isn't there, with the "bedside manner" of Attila the Hun.

We had this storm called Doris, and furiously high winds. I knew I was in for a tough time getting to see my friend Dani in Essex, but I decided to go anyway. I didn't go anywhere on Tuesday, walked a bit on Wednesday, and could feel the change in my balance almost immediately. If I don't do the vestibular exercises and walk-a lot-every day, I start to revert back to where I was a year ago, and that doesn't make me very happy. These exercises are for life. Thanks to the four cripplers at Barts for that-but it does give me a challenge, so I just keep going, like the Energizer bunny.

Well-the wind blew me everywhere on Thursday-and there were times I thought I was going to end up in traffic, which I found a bit scary. But I persevered, fought the very high winds, and got to see my friend on time. I even fought the winds on the way back, and there were times where I had to stop walking and stand there and get thrown around. But I got back (took three hours), got blown into the flat, made a strong coffee, and realized that I hadn't fallen over once. Not once.

Miracles do happen, and I'm living proof of that. By rights I should have been dead long ago, but I'm still going. And the fact that I got there and back without any problems-except strong winds, which I decided to fight so I could get there in time-was a huge win for me. I never could have done this a couple of years ago. I wouldn't even have attempted it, I didn't have the confidence.

It's quite amazing how you cope when you don't really have any other choice. So I just keep putting one foot in front of another and hope that I won't fall over myself. And one lesson of this past week is: never believe everything anyone tells you. Demand proof. Just because they call themselves "experts" it doesn't mean that they aren't really total assholes.

Running around in ever decreasing circles...until I vanish up my own backside

That is one of those northern sayings that make me laugh-and this hasn't been a week of joy and laughter, I can tell you. You know when you lose your temper over something that is so trivial that it wouldn't ordinarily bother you? And then, when you look at it later (if you look at it later), you see that it reminded you of something in your past that was really important (or you thought so at the time)? That was my week.

I had the weepies last weekend, and they lasted all week. I couldn't figure out why-because Valentine's Day doesn't really have any significance any more. Even when I was married, my ex ignored it as being unimportant and insignificant-but he did that with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc., so I got used to it. Then I divorced him. Well, obviously.

I spent the entire week with a bad feeling, and I have learned the hard way (believe me, it was definitely the hard way!) to trust that when I get a bad feeling in my gut, it usually isn't food poisoning, but something I need to trust.

This was a hospital week, and I've got a few more of those before I have a few odd appointments here and there, so I can actually get things done (dust bunnies. Yick-so many dust bunnies I could open a dust bunny store). Apart from my infusions, I had two consultants' appointments, and those should have been routine-except, they weren't routine at all. No wonder I had a pissed off week.

If you've been following this for awhile, you've been with me through the gentamicin, idiots at the Royal London and Barts very nearly killing me, having to fight my way back from being bedridden for two years, cancer and a double mastectomy...the list goes on. And on. And on. And here I thought that I am, after a hellish seven year period, turning the corner. So it was a huge shock when I was told that I need to have more tests to confirm a diagnosis of-get ready for it-motor neurone.

More tests, more scans-I'll probably just keel over from radiation poisoning. But Dr. X said that we repeat the tests-and do more-just to be certain. Dr. X-very experienced, very competent, pretty good "bedside manner". So we'll see-and if I'm in for another fight, well, I'm used to it.

I had the warning shot over the bow about using names in the blog, because some people get really upset (even though I've heaped praise on the ones who deserve that praise). Of course, the cripplers-and Bucky Buckland, the Anti-Christ-will always be fair game. But now, everyone at my new hospital is "Mr. X" or "Mr. Y"-regardless of gender. And if that upsets any females, they can smack me in the head the next time they see me. The problem is this: CRS (Can't Remember Shit), and the fact that there are so many specialists I forget who is Mr. X and who is Mr. Y. So I have at least three Mr. Ys-they''' be more confused than I am, and that (depending on the specialty) can be worrying.

Can I use "the one with the grey hair"? No, they all have grey hair-and some of them have no hair. So, Mr. X it is, and I'll just figure it out as I go along.

I seem to be over the initial shock of the (possible) diagnosis, and I've decided that I can't do anything right now except ruminate over it, and we all know how useless that is, so I'll just wait. Not even the thought of stuffing my face with Kettle Chips had an impact-so perhaps I'll do some spring cleaning a little early.

There are worse things to worry about-like the possibility of that mental case Trump starting a war. That will certainly end the prospect of anyone worrying about anything, because it will be the end of life on earth. Aren't I cheerful? But I will protest if he does anything even more stupid before Easter, because my friend is coming over from Ireland, and I really want to spend some time with her before there is a nuclear war.

One of the doctors this last week (Dr. Y-one of them) asked me if my personality has changed lately. I asked if being more grumpy than usual counts. I'm grumpy, and bad tempered, but I said that people who are rude and incredibly stupid (and who just crash into me without looking and then swear at me afterwards) really get me angry. So, okay, that was accepted. Then I was asked if I laugh at things that nobody else finds funny, or if I don't find everyone else's humor funny. Now there is a minefield, and I said that I do laugh at strange things, but that is my sense of humor: dry, dark, probably a little twisted. I said that will probably never change, just ask my friends (who are just as strange as I am).
I spent an hour answering questions-and this is the NHS, where you have to wait two hours after your appointment to see anyone (if you're lucky), and then you get ten minutes (also if you're lucky). So that's how I knew it was serious.

I guess we will have to see what happens. And now-I'm off to Starbucks. Hang the motor neurone.

Rise of the Walking Dead

I felt like I could be one of the extras in The Walking Dead-no makeup required. This flu/chest infection/dreaded lurgy that has been going around flattened me for three weeks, and I coughed so much that I started looking to see if lung tissue was coming up. And, because of the immunity (or lack thereof), I was on heavy duty antibiotics, and it took a week to get over those. So I only did what I really had to do, and cancelled or deferred everything else.

Now I have returned to the land of the living-and all the ideas I had of just stopping everything-by everything I mean the antibody replacement, the antibiotics, all the treatments-went out the window. I realize that everything I'm doing keeps me from developing something that will kill me-well, hopefully, anyway. I still have the tremendous desire to reach my hundredth birthday, be fit, healthy and compos mentis, and be riding on my Harley down the Pacific Coast Highway with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me (someone has to be able to pick up the bike if it falls over, come on), stop and look at the scenery and then just keel over. What a way to go (either that or be having sex-at 100-now there's a terrific way to come and go at the same time).

One thing that cheered me up during this flu ridden time was last Thursday-Groundhog Day. Every February 2, I look for footage of Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog, leaving his burrow, waving his little paws at the world's press, and looking for his shadow. If he sees it, that means we have six more weeks of winter. It's such an old tradition-it's great fun, I think, watching these old guys in their top hats going to confer with Phil. I cannot for the life of me understand why some people get so bitchy about the fact that Phil isn't always right. Who cares? It's fun, and a reason to party and celebrate-God knows that our world needs any excuse to celebrate right now. I think the naysayers are the ones who had no friends in school, and probably still don't. There are many copies of Phil now-but he's the first, and the real deal.

Apparently Phil came out of his burrow right on schedule, waved his little paws at the cameras, did a few jumps (only a few-he's really old, after all), and when one of the old guys told him that there is a big fat rodent with bad hair and a worse attitude in the White House, he declared that we will have four more years of winter (probably nuclear winter), and that he was going on strike for four years and would come back before the next election. Of course, that is only if there is a Pennsylvania, or a United States, Europe, or the rest of the world.

Millions of Americans wish that we could do the same.

People here have asked me why we seem to worship Punxsutawney Phil, since he is only a rodent. I reply that the Brits worship their own rodents (they live in the palace, Downing Street, Whitehall, etc), and, in fact, this country is completely overrun by rodents. Some of them even have four legs.

I'm back to normal, as you can tell, irascible as ever. And we have snow. I like that too, having grown up with snow angels, snowball fights, snow days off school (especially snow days, every child's dream). But here, one hundredth of a millimetre of snow means that everything in London (and the rest of the country) stops. Trains don't run on time (and sometimes not at all) because there is white stuff on the tracks, buses don't work, flights are cancelled...it's funny, really-but only if I have no place to go.

One day (maybe) these guys will sort themselves out. Things will work (maybe), the NHS will be saved (not likely, in my lifetime-or anyone else's), people will stop bitching and whingeing about Brexit (which could be the best thing that this country has done in decades. Or not. Only time will tell), and, by that time, I will be riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley.

I'm off to Starbucks. Some things work regardless of the weather!

Humpty Dumpty Sat on a Wall...

I know how he felt. I've been waiting to fall off for a couple of weeks now. Flu-the very nasty flu that I thought I'd escaped while everyone around me was coughing and choking and sounding like they were at death's door. That is what I get for being smug! It's been my turn. Humpty Dumpty indeed.

So I have been in bed, except for the hospital appointments that I couldn't change, and feeling very sorry for myself. Even my hospital nurses have been sick, and that is probably how I got this in the first place! And to add insult to injury, I was cautioned about the blog, which just happened to find its way to my new clinic at the Royal Free. No guesses as to who complained about it. That would be the Buckster, Matt Anti-Christ infantile abuser and general douchebag Buckland, now working out of the Royal Free. Good grief, I wish someone would run the pile of crap over, and save all those poor patients, not to mention the children at Great Ormond Street Hospital.

Apparently, he is on his good behavior, and the staff think he is wonderful. Just wait until he reverts to type. Of course, the person who warned me said that I am entitled to have a blog, but I need to be careful about naming people, because that could cause the Trust to discharge me from care. I was very clear in my response: I'm happier and healthier (except for this flu!) since I left the Royal London, my team is terrific, and I haven't said anything nasty about anyone, only-one creature, and I reserve the right to tell the truth about him and the despicable way he behaved, not only toward me, but toward other patients, too. He can rot in hell (which, no doubt, he will, and the sooner the better for everyone), and I won't back away from telling the truth.

So, no names, although I did mention the oncologist and the plastic surgeon, but I said only good things about them. Why not? I think they are excellent consultants. But, in future, no names.

I have been warned.

While I've been lying around, coughing up lung tissue, sneezing and using up several boxes of Kleenex (I wish I had stock in the company, I would have made a fortune), I've been watching the news, which is probably a huge mistake. Trump hasn't been in the White House two weeks and he has already alienated everyone. Again. The man is mentally unstable, unfit and unqualified for the position of President, and he has brought all his other racist buddies with him. Even Bush wasn't hated as much as Trump-and Bush, well...we all know about Bush.

The Democrats have to get their act together, and soon, before that racist Trump starts a nuclear war. He'll be the cause of increased terrorist attacks everywhere, that's for sure. And who is going to pay for his bright idea, the wall between the US and Mexico? Is he going to cough up some of his own money? Hardly.

Has anyone worked out that the reason he didn't ban people from Saudi and the UAE (9/11 anyone?) is because he has business interests there? There is oil, of course, but I think that he's using his position as president to line his own pockets. I'd bet on it, and I don't bet on anything.

So that's me, cough cough, sneeze, sneeze, but this week is better than last week, so perhaps I'm on the mend. I'm cautiously optimistic-although it seems that when I'm cautiously optimistic, some other disaster happens.

It's Kettle Chips for me....and Starbucks.

Where is Lee Harvey Oswald now that we really need him?

Oh, please-if you have to shoot a President-couldn't you shoot this one? Yesterday should have been declared a national day of mourning-flags flying at half mast, black shrouds covering windows, people throwing up in the streets-oh, but weren't people throwing up in the streets?

Did I watch the inauguration? Seriously? Watch while an ignorant, racist, immature (look at his Twitter feeds. Does he seem like he has the maturity of a six year old?), misogynist, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-black, a liar, hypocrite, pervert-the country's premier douchebag-and he now has the nuclear codes. Did I miss anything?

What could possibly go wrong??

I didn't think much of Obama-I thought he was a mediocre president, although I did like Michelle, who really stepped up and did some good work. But this overblown, pasty-faced cretin? And his trophy wife (Malaria) who only needs to open her mouth and the world can see that she has the brains of a cannoli. Eeeesh!! Next thing you know they'll redecorate the White House to the Trump Tower standard: vulgar, ostentatious, and probably gold leaf everywhere. Someone will film the Oval Office and we'll see diamante (rhinestones, let's call them what they are), gold leaf, and anything and everything that screams lots of money but absolutely no taste whatsoever.

I was glad to see that right-thinking people everywhere have been demonstrating against this scum sucking reptile and his equally racist friends. I hope that people continue to do so, because he needs to be constantly reminded that he is the most reviled creature in American history. I always thought that Bush (GW-but probably the other one, too) was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. But now-someone has come along and lowered the bottom of the barrel.

I predict that after (possibly even during) the monster's first hundred days, the people who had the extremely bad judgment to vote him into power will be wanting to shoot him. Perhaps they should shoot themselves, because they voted for him.

There goes America. There goes the United States. Want to "make America great again"? We can only do that if we rid ourselves of the scourge of Donald Trump.

Next up is the Inaugural Ball. That's going to be fun, to see how many people with both brains and taste (and judgment) avoid it like the plague. Malaria will stand there, waiting for pasty-face to put his hand behind her back and wind her up. As for him, put him in a tuxedo and he'll look just like a constipated penguin with a bad combover.

I would say that everyone who cares about my country should leave, but don't come to this one. It's just as bad. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing. In fact, the left hand doesn't even know where to find the right one.

Well-there is always Iceland. But now I'm thinking somewhat further afield. I wonder what Tahiti is like at this time of year...

The Anti-Destination League Strikes Again

We're now two weeks into the new year-and it feels just like the old year. I feel like I am living something out of the film Groundhog Day: every day seems the same as the day before. It's a very strange feeling.

I've done the hospital/doctor/scan/mega-testing and prodding nearly every day for the past seven years, and I looked at my diary and realized that-by the end of January (this month. Not several years down the line) I should (allegedly) be just about done with all the medical palaver. Honestly, I could give my job description as "professional patient". But-as one consultant pointed out-I am still alive, and pretty well for my age. He could have left off the "for my age", though. I found that a little depressing.

But life in the yuck is same again-as Stephen King wrote, SSDD (same shit, different day). Transport for London (TFL) began by fighting its members over-get this, where else in the world would this ever happen?)-who operates the doors on the trains. Say what?? They're all striking over something so minor. It's a button. You press the button and it opens the train door. You press another button and the doors close. What is the big deal? Do the unions think it's funny to disrupt everyone's journeys by striking over who pushes the damned button?

And now some idiot has decided to build high-speed trains-driverless, yet- when they can't even operate normal trains without bitching over who pushes the damned button. And I call these people the Anti-Destination League. Anything to make people's journeys a nightmare-moreso than they are already.

All it takes is one hundredth of a millimetre of snow on the tracks and the trains stop working. A leaf on the line and the trains are delayed. The prices of tickets keep going up-they're astronomical now-but the service is absolute crap. No wonder people are so pissed off that they seem to crash into other people deliberately. It's the only chance they get to take out their frustrations without killing someone. Of course, people are doing that, too.

Not far from where I live there is an Underground stop called Archway. A lot of buses stop at Archway, and it's always very, very busy. So the Anti-Destination League, in its brilliance, decided to change all the bus routes around Archway Station. Rather than leaving it all as it is-or was-with traffic running as smoothly as it could do given the amount of cars and buses on the roads. Some imbecile (someone who needs to be identified so he can be gelded) decided to change a one-way street to one way in the other direction, and create filter lanes going up, around, sideways past Archway. So now there is a constant bottleneck-you can see your bus in the distance, but it takes twenty minutes (minimum) for it to reach you.

I went up to someone who was clearly a supervisor, standing next to the suits who (presumably) were big shots in Transport for London (hard to tell these days, though. Everyone is a boss. All chiefs, no indians-until it comes to accepting any responsibility for anything.). I asked whether this huge, cosmic blunder-this mess of road building-was permanent. One guy looked at me and said, "of course this is permanent, love (already I didn't like him. He called me love-he deserved a spit in the eye, but he was a lot bigger than I am). This is Britain, you know. Made in England".

I saw the opening-and I took it. "Yes, darling", I said, as sarcastically as possible, "and so was the Titanic". And I walked away.

And next week we get to have a cabbage in the White House. I swear, I'm ready to move to Iceland. I do hope they have Starbucks in Iceland. And Kettle Chips. Otherwise, I will need to do a re-think.

The Curious Case of the Disappearing Nipple

The first week of the new year-and it feels like the old year. Same again: more being poked and prodded and blood letted.

I went to see Steve-that's Steve, the boob and nipple man-for a checkup, and to ask him for a re-do-given that one replacement nipple has disappeared without a trace.Where it's gone is anyone's guess.
The bottom line? He said to leave it as it is, because there is very little extra tissue, and it would probably not make much of a difference-if any. So, now I just wait to get an appointment for the tattoos, and then I'm just about finished. It's nearly the end of a four year dance with cancer. I beat it this time (again). I can only be cautiously optimistic.

I did ask Steve about a facelift-eye lift? De--wrinkling? He just laughed at me, and told me that I don't need it. Huh-I think I've had enough surgery for ten people, so I'll take Steve's advice and accept my lines and wrinkles-or perhaps wear a mask.

That was almost all the excitement of the week. I did my infusions, as usual, and I decided to stop making jokes, anecdotes, being amusing-and just go very, very quiet. I'll save the jokes for my blog. This might have something to do with the trauma of starting a new year, and realizing that I have been in survival mode for so many years (seven) that I have forgotten how to live. Now is the time to get my backside moving-if not now, then when?

It seems that being here for so many years has made me a wellspring of useless information. I naturally pass all this on to anyone who is reading this. And have I got a new year story for you-and it is absolutely true. It tells you a lot about the people ...

I was coming back from the hospital the other day, got on the bus, all as usual, and a man came up behind me; he had a baby buggy with him. Now usually nobody really looks carefully at the baby, especially when it's facing the parent, and when it's covered up (it's cold out there). So I was sitting in a seat just behind this guy, and he was fussing over what I thought was his (or someone's) child. He looked up at me and glared, and I admit that I thought this must be a really ugly baby if he didn't want anyone to see it.

He was distracted by someone coming past him, and I looked down and saw-I promise that this is absolutely true, nobody could possibly make this up- a cabbage. That is what I said: a cabbage, as in the vegetable. And this cabbage was huge, it looked like a normal cabbage on steroids. I'm no expert on cabbages-although I have dated several in my lifetime, and even married one-but this was a whopper.

Even worse: it was partially covered by a pink baby blanket, and it had a pink ribbon around its middle-with a little bell. I was gobsmacked. And he turned and saw that I was looking, and I quickly looked away. I desperately wanted to say what a cute-um-cabbage, and why the bell, and did the bell work-but I decided that discretion was probably the better part of a punch in the face, so I said nothing. ~But why pink? Did he decide that his cabbage was a girl cabbage, not a boy cabbage?

Honestly, the bus was stuck in traffic, so my mind was going to all kinds of interesting places. What kind of weirdo puts a cabbage into a baby buggy-then covers it with a pink baby blanket-or any baby blanket, for that matter? What if it's really a boy? How would he know? And, of course, the really important question: was he having sex with a cabbage? And if so, how was it?

The last two questions set me off. I covered my face with my scarf, pulled my hood down, and started to laugh. Then I couldn't stop. And I obviously couldn't look at the weirdo, so I looked out the window and shook with laughter. I must have looked like I was having a seizure. The worst part of all this is that everyone was either texting, or talking, or in deep space-and if anyone noticed, nobody was talking. Or laughing hysterically. Only me. He could have had a machine gun in the buggy and nobody would have noticed until he started shooting. But, no-it was a cabbage. It could probably feed a family for a week.Or whatever he actually did with it.

When he finally took his buggy-and his cabbage, complete with ribbon and (presumably working) bell off the bus, he looked up at me and shook his fist. I waved. And laughed. He made my day.

Is there a lesson in this, apart from the fact that nobody looks around on public transport? Yes- never separate a man and his cabbage.